Calista, Laura Rahme [best ereader for comics txt] 📗

get me another set of copper pans. Haunting! What bullshit. The woman is a tyrant. And a mad one at that!”

As he uttered those words, the French doors were pushed open and the eldest maid strode into the kitchen. Gerard hushed instantly. He hurried to the sink to put out the cigar he’d half-smoked.

“I can smell tobacco,” she said.

“It’s nothing, Shannon. Inspector Leroux, here, wanted to have a talk and...”

“Mr. O’Malley’s right. It was my idea,” said Maurice.

Shannon crossed the room with an air of efficiency. Without a word, she moved past Maurice and reached out to open the windows.

Maurice left soon after. He was lost in thought. Returning to the landing, he resumed his tour of the house, entering a gallery of rooms. Some of these were not locked but when they were, he spent considerable time ferreting through the keys Mrs. Cleary had given him to determine which of them fitted in the lock.

Having reached a corridor, he heard a dog bark behind him. A voice, young, almost infantile, called out after it.

“Willy! Come back here, you. Don’t pester Mr. Leroux.”

Maurice turned around and saw a young maid hurry off with a tiny Bolognese under one arm. She held a duster in her other hand.

Save for the housemaids’ routine cleaning, it seemed these rooms had been neglected and uninhabited for a long time, possibly longer than a year. There was an absence of furniture which made settling in or sitting down almost impossible, but Aaron Nightingale more than made up for it with artefacts. Portraits left not an empty space upon the walls.

Maurice neared a room whose door had been left unlocked. Noticing a curious odour, he peered inside. He inhaled the scent of wood, and…something else. He could not describe it.

The treasures in that room were overwhelming: Abyssinian wooden stools covered with hides; long deadly arrows and feathered bows from presumed wanderings in South Africa; carved shields; and leaning against the golden wallpaper, were noble African faces carved into long ivory tusks.

Elsewhere he saw embroidered leather poufs and fancy cushions from the Sahel lands and from Egypt, a low damascene table for playing Arab checkers, an oriental lamp with filigree details, then scarabs upon scarabs in blue, turquoise and gold, all heaped into a dusty Moroccan leather box.

Aaron Nightingale had possessed untold riches but he seemed to have never touched any of it. Everything lay frozen, exactly as it would appear in a display window or souk. Rich leather scents filled Maurice’s nostrils; and once more, a curious odour, but he could not make it out. It was a malignant smell, as though something rotted inside the room.

Maurice was about to leave, when his eyes caught the largest of the African masks, set against other gilded objects. For a second it seemed to him that the mask had come alive, that its features had shifted like a gleaming mass. Its crown of hair had seemed to unfurl. Maurice squinted. He stared again at the mask but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Colours and shapes… Mrs. Cleary was right. Dismissing what he had seen, he left the room.

His steps echoed in the long corridor. He passed further rooms and yet more portraits hanging upon the walls. At last, he came into large billiard room with heavy red carpet. An imposing brass chandelier hung directly above the wooden felt-covered table. Everything looked new, untouched. Had Aaron ever played billiards at all?

On the face of it, one could imagine Alexandra Hall and its contents to be nothing more than a projection of Aaron’s ego and his vain pursuits. The entire house could be considered a cabinet of curiosities. There was an unease as one stepped inside its rooms. The luxury and decadence unsettled. It spoke of the soul of a man with an insatiable lust for possessions.

But a disquiet of another nature haunted Maurice: aside from her bedroom, there was a near absence of Calista Nightingale’s feminine touch, as though she had never existed.

For wherever he looked, whether it was the billiard room or the numerous chambers filled with exotic art, or even the parlour with its heavy empire furniture and its grand yet zoo-like portraits, there was no evidence a woman had lived here, nor that her personality had been permitted to make its mark.

Alfred and the gardens

IT was almost lunchtime, when Maurice returned to his room with a flash of inspiration. He wrote it down in his journal.

I keep thinking about something I saw that, to most, would appear innocuous – a ceramic bust in Aaron’s office and which I’ve now identified. Aaron Nightingale was once fond of Aristotle it seems.

There are those instances when you can’t bear to face a person – be it from shame, or even fear, and when you naturally wish never to have their eyes fall upon you.

This is the impression I have of Mr. Nightingale and his relationship with the Greek philosopher, Aristotle. Aaron owned two ceramic busts whose faces he turned away. I wonder why.

Then turning to the stationary provided at his desk, he wrote the following letter.

Mr. Wilson,

 

I arrived yesterday and all is well. I shall remain in Alexandra Hall for a few more nights at least. Aside from some expected hostility towards an inspector, and a few odd superstitious beliefs, I’ve so far encountered nothing out of the ordinary.

It appears that aside from the cook, the gardener, the four housemaids, and Mrs. Cleary, we are quite alone on this estate.

I plan to interview the housemaids tomorrow.

I shall also endeavour to learn what I can about Aaron and his activities in the event it bears on this case.

I shall keep you informed of my discoveries.

 

Inspector Leroux

Maurice slid the letter in an envelope to which he affixed a Penny Black.